


Baby, Drop Them Bones

by blesser



Series: Young Blood (Stand and Deliver) [1]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gunplay, Kink Negotiation, Power Play, Protectiveness, Under-negotiated Kink, heroes being heroes, is metaphorical gunplay a thing?, mid season one, subsequently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 10:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7614145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blesser/pseuds/blesser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Waves loved all those stories, stories about monsters and curses and things.” </p><p>“And what kind of stories did you love?” </p><p>“The ones about winners,” Wynonna replies immediately, “Still do.”</p><p>***<br/> <br/>  <em>Wynonna sits Doc down and talks about what she wants.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, Drop Them Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Raise Hell by Dorothy, because... come on?

Doc drapes himself over the check in desk like a tiger skin rug in a tasteless apartment.

Wynonna thinks he would probably use the word 'gauche' or something himself; she instead would use the word 'moronic'. He actually looks great doing it and really she is just mad at him. His leaning is fine, her mood however is not.

"Cindy my dear," Doc begins, like him and Cindy go way back and are just leaning together on a fence post shooting the shit, "my beloved and I find ourselves in need of accommodation, if you'd be so kind."

Cindy snaps her gum, seemingly unphased by the walking talking western pitching up against her work space. She looks at Wynonna, the word 'beloved' bouncing between the three of them. Cindy practically mouths it back to Wynonna, who shrugs, too busy stuck between playing along and laughing to make her face do anything normal.

"Uh huh." _Snap_.

Cindy must've noticed the lack of rings on both of them; nobody can stand behind a desk all day and night and not thrive off of people-watching. Unhelpfully, Doc is tapping his hands on the high wooden desk. They are long fingered; gun callused, in plain sight and most importantly: ring free hands. He is humming along with practiced innocence to some imaginary tune on an imaginary piano and Wynonna kind of wants to remove his hands from sight, for good.

The Honeyhill Springs Hotel has a rather ostentatiously displayed crucafix on the wall behind the reception desk. It reaches out now behind Cindy like a pointing, watchful thing, peering around the unmovable gate keeper and practically screaming _sin,_ _sin!_ at them. Unfortunately for Cindy -and for the higher powers of judgment- they are standing between Wynonna and the chance, after four hours of Doc's awful and obstinate driving, to shower. She can feel something unspecific but definitely gross creeping down her ankle. If she leaves a pool of demon gunk on the floor of the Honeyhill Springs foyer that would serve them right, but it would also lead to questions they can’t afford right now and maybe a cleaning charge, which they definitely can’t afford right now.

Doc is trying to breeze his way through their engagement story, something about a storm and a runaway horse and Wynonna realises this isn't going to work the second Cindy reaches for her St Christopher absently and begins twirling it around her finger as she does her level best to glare them down.

Luckily, Wynonna is a boss in a stand off. She has been winning stand offs with her face alone long before anybody put a gun in her hand. She sent little Bobby Parson Jr home in preschool and got herself reprimanded for apparently casting witchcraft with her eyes across the jungle gym. It has taken a lifetime of growing and fighting to realise the witchcraft he accused her of was really just a killer, unblinking scowl and a very Earp don't-fuck-with-me brand of magic.

Doc isn't going to win this one with niceties, Cindy isn't fooled by his hat tip or his knuckle kissing or drawling, she isn't going to let this unmarried couple into her hotel anytime soon and the very thought of not showering immediately is unacceptable. Wynonna must act, before she screams.

"Ya'll here for the fair?" Cindy says, accent roughened up for the tourists in a practiced sort of way, she is really amping it up for the big brush off.

"Are we?" Doc looks like he has already won the teddy bear, "Are we heck. Excuse me ma'am, but we are just thrilled for the fair."

"Re-enactment types huh?" Cindy looks to Wynonna for verification or perhaps a mercy killing, she didn't seem to be working the dream here, is clearly a deeply unhappy, uppity person. Wynonna's skin itches in irritation and she is near on tempted to take Cindy up on it.

Sighing internally, Wynonna gets to work. She has her coat wrapped all the way tight up to her chin on account of carrying an exploded hell creature on her shirt and daisy dukes. She shifts now, carefully trying to let the coat fall open just enough to show only what she wants Cindy to see. This is a trick Wynonna learnt leaning up against sticky bars, she isn't proud of it.

She isn't trying to share the usual with Cindy now, it is very probable that would be a worse offence than their current supposed life of sin. Wynonna really wants a shower and bed, not for some hoity high-ground dweller to set her on fire with her crucifix. Eyes opening just a fraction wider, Cindy clocks peacemaker tucked away at Wynonna's hip. Luckily she doesn't seem to notice the black blood on her shirt because her expression remains fairly unmoved, she looks more impressed than anything, as if a lady carrying a dangerous weapon is something to be expected, but a healthy sex life is what she is judged for. Figures.

"Serious piece you got there. The both of you I guess." Cindy waves her hand in the direction of Doc's holster. Wynonna doesn't quite manage to stop her smirk and neither does he.

"All right Cindy, listen up," Wynonna is done, sobers herself up with a straight face fast, "this man here is not my beloved, he is a dangerous criminal."

Cindy snaps her gum, hopefully for the last time, and her mouth shut. She turns wide eyes on Doc, who smiles awkwardly and inappropriately.

"You on the run?" She asks him.

"Eyes here Cindy," Wynonna says before Doc can start getting all dramatic and tragic about his new role.

"And you’re his wife?" Cindy gasps.

"What no!?" Wynonna groans, "why couldn't you have believed that when we wanted- right look no. I am his parole officer."

"Wow."

"You betcha. We need a room pronto," _Wynonna_ - _think-_ _What Would Dolls Do_ , she looks Cindy dead straight in the eye, "you need to cooperate in this."

Cindy flips open the booking chart and keeps glancing up at Doc like she wants him to commit a crime right here right now. Disappointed or just bored of them, she turns to the key rack with the gracious air of a queen bestowing the keys to city. People really love this good citizen drill as a motivator.

The key dangles just above Wynonna's palm, I can't wait to be clean, she sings in her head. Cindy pauses, because Cindy is evil.

"What did you do?" Damn. Wynonna snatches the key and starts walking towards the elevator. She tries to breeze her way through Doc's arrest story, something about a storm and a runaway horse. She talks over Cindy's little interrupting noises and the loud squelch of her boots with every step.

Wynonna keeps a firm hand on Doc's arm, but he seems weirdly happy to be led and is mercifully silent. When they reach the end of the room she actually resists the urge to fist pump.

The ping and woosh of the doors is undoubtedly the best thing Wynonna has heard all day, hopefully only to be beaten soon by the sound of running water and maybe the clink of a bottle.

"Wait!" Cindy calls as they step onto the elevator, "You gotta show me your badge right?" Wynonna hits their floor button three times, makes her face look apologetic and authoritative like _'oh dear, oh no, there isn't a thing I can do to stop this and neither can you'._

She is impressed with her timing, and how she manages to call through just as the doors close in her best, most Dolls-y voice.

"No can do ma'am," she throws a little salute and a decidedly un-Dolls-y wink for good measure, "deep undercover."

There isn't any awkward music –Welcome to Honeyhill Springs; the most joyless hotel in the world- and the rumble of the ancient elevator is endless and trapping in a way such things are after spending a whole day stuck in a car driven by a maniac.

The maniac looks tired too, tips his head back against the mirror so his face is mostly obscured by the brim of his hat and might even be having a micro nap.

Wynonna sighs angrily and, without thinking about it too much, starts stripping out of her clothes. Doc raises his head and makes a surprised, interested noise. This only makes Wynonna feel angrier. Also hotter.

The cool rush of air on her trapped skin is a blessing, even if it is just recycled elevator staleness. Wynonna peels the sleeves away from her sticky arms and tosses the heavy, wet coat at Doc, who _obviously_ catches it one handed, he doesn't even look up.

Her shirt goes next; it’s the oversized night shirt she was wearing this morning before all the shooting started, four hours spent on the road, covered in hell gunk, in her nightwear. First time for everything and hopefully the last too. She doesn’t bother throwing her shirt at Doc, doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of showing off. Instead she lets it fall in a messy heap on the floor.

They finally reach their floor and the doors open just as Wynonna is unbuttoning her shorts when suddenly Doc’s hand shoots out and grabs her wrist, she looks up into his face.

“Wynonna,” he says quietly, his tone landing strangely somewhere between admonishing and apologetic.

Wynonna glares at him.

“This is all just entirely your fault you know,” she says maturely.

Before the elevator doors can close again, she shimmies out of the daisy dukes, which is impressively done given how tight they are and the fact that Doc is still sort of holding onto her hand. She discards them with the shirt and sticks out her free arm to grab at the sliding door.

Doc looks like he wants to say something, but he just lets her go instead. She sees him bend down to pick up her clothes and thinks _good_ before she can start to feel bad about it.

“Would you like me to go first, check-“ Doc starts to say, but Wynonna just strides into the corridor, dressed in blood and her underwear, swinging the key noisily round her trigger finger.

“Because of you, I was basically nearly naked all day.”

There is too much innuendo in the statement for her to sound as pissed as she meant to, and Doc wisely says nothing.

Wynonna knows she might be being unfair, but when the dust cleared and the bodies had dropped back to hell this morning, Doc had dragged her to the car so fast she was lucky to have thought to swipe a pair of Waverly’s shorts from the laundry basket, Doc snatching up her coat and boots and the car keys. She didn’t even have her phone, no way of contacting Waverly or Dolls. Her feet on the frozen ground and Peacemaker still burning it’s brand into her hand, Doc with his bruising grip tugging her arm, pushing her into the car.

The lock is about one hundred years old, and the key seems to turn in all directions but the right one, Wynonna grumbles and curses at it and overall does a good job of pointedly ignoring the way Doc is leaning against the frame and basically bracketing her against the door. He runs his palm up her arm as she wrangles with the key, chasing the goosebumps on her skin and tracing the tracks of black that run from shoulder to wrist like veins. He looks impossibly sad and Wynonna is thankful when the door finally opens.

“Give me a minute.” She mumbles under her breath and beelines for the bathroom.

Her skin feels like it could peel off a hundred layers, the shower is aggressively, thankfully hot and Wynonna scrubs till the water in the tub runs clear and her skin is rubbed pink.

She stands for a minute after the spray has shut off, eyes closed and swaying with head rush. Dizzy from the heat of the shower, from the realisation that she hasn’t eaten all day, from the thought of what is waiting for her in the room.

She can’t hear Doc moving around at all, there is no sound but the click-whir of the extractor fan and the steady drip from her hair. She imagines he is still standing in the doorway, frozen in time as he is, wearing that still and abandoned look of sadness.

Wynonna Earp can track six moving targets in a fight, but she can’t work out where the hell Doc might be on the other side of that door.

She wraps a towel around herself quickly, realising how ridiculous she sounds, like a bride hiding in the bathroom on her wedding night.

Doc Holliday doesn’t make her nervous, she has fought enough men in her life to know not to be afraid of anyone, and yet she is riddled with fears. She has also screwed enough people that didn’t matter, maybe a couple who did. She doesn’t know where Doc fits into all that; touching her, being another gun by her side, holding Waverly back from a fight, pulling Wynonna to the forest floor with sure hands... but he seems to have carved a space somehow. It is almost frightening how easy it was, how much it should bother her but doesn’t.

“The front desk might be manned by Cerberus, but they get top marks for blood removing water pressure,” She blusters into the room, fastening the towel in a tight knot.

“The dog who guards the gates of the underworld. Fitting,” Doc looks impressed.

He is knelt on the floor, fiddling with the radiator under the window. His hat is on the bed, a newspaper in tatters for some reason beside it, as well as his coat and waistcoat, leaving him still very much dressed. Wynonna remembers just earlier that day trying to pull him back into bed, his fully clothed body all pressed up against her as she writhed in just a shirt under the sharp press of buttons against her skin and the bite of his belt buckle on her hip.

Wynonna shrugs, wishes she was the kind of girl to feel naked when she was the least dressed, but she can see how vulnerable Doc’s eyes are and how his done up top button doesn’t make him in charge here. At all.

“Waves loved all those stories, stories about monsters and curses and things.”

“And what kind of stories did you love?”

“The ones about winners,” Wynonna replies immediately, “Still do.”

Doc chuckles distractedly, the radiator seems to clunk in response to his laugh and he softens his mirth to a little hum of victory. Wynonna moves closer so the bed isn’t blocking her view, now she can see her coat draped over the one chair pulled away from the desk in the room and in Doc’s hands, her boots.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Wynonna says.

Doc has stuffed newspaper in her snow wet boots and has spent the better part of half an hour doing god knows what -and god knows how he knows how- to the radiator just to dry out her damn boots. Wynonna wants to punch something to overcome the urge to cry all of a sudden and it is so ridiculous, he is so ridiculous, softly packing the paper into her shoes with his trigger happy hands.

Wynonna walks across to him so quickly that he looks up, startled. She is angry on the outside now, a relief after a day spent stewing in it, but she wishes she had the words for what she was angry about.

“My daddy used to do that,” her mouth says without her permission, head full of the sight of three little pairs of snow shoes by the fire, big hands pinching the feeling back into her blue toes while she squealed and kicked in playful delight. The smell of the fire and the warmth in her father’s fire and whisky flushed face, that easy safety she is still trying so hard to craft out of nothing back on the homestead.

Doc smiles easily, rocking back to kneel with one hand to test the radiator, quickly whipping it away as if burnt.

“Well,” he drawls, still smiling, “If you won’t take care of yourself…”

And there it is, finally, smashing into the room like a gunshot or a charging bull. A charging bull fired from a gun.

“I don’t need you to take care of me.”

Doc makes the unfortunate choice of laughing, a short sharp bark and the shake of his head that has Wynonna seeing red.

“You aren’t in charge of me alright. You don’t get to choose what I do, when I fight, what I wear or where I go. You aren’t Wyatt, you aren’t calling the shots here, you are not my father, you are just-“She stumbles away from the downright vicious and ends up with just hurtful, “ –my sidekick.”

Doc laughs again, but it isn’t a very nice sound this time.

“I didn’t drag you outta that house and into that car because of you,” He is angry know, still on his knees and glaring up at her accusingly.

“Wha-“

“It wasn’t about you, Wynonna. You think I was dragging you out of a fight to protect you? You might think I’m not the quickest bullet in the barrel but I ain’t stupid, not when it comes to fighting. It’s all I am good for. _Sidekick_ right?” Wynonna folds her arms against the rotten feeling blooming in her chest, “I know that we are in this neck deep, you and me? We _are_ the fight, so what do you think I was doing? I wouldn’t presume to save your very capable life against your overly wilfull will sweetheart. Not unless you asked me to of course. But I wasn’t running away from it, I was leading it away. Away from-“

“-Waverly.” Wynonna feels sick. Maybe heartbroken feels like this or something altogether more dangerous?

She reaches out and puts her hands on Doc’s head, and maybe it looks like forgiveness but she is quickly realising it isn’t. He doesn’t have anything to apologise for, because here he is, somebody who gets it. He understands her war, all of them. The public one and the private ones, the one she is fighting for the ungrateful town, the world, the one against herself and the one against the devil.

Most importantly there is the war she is waging, all of them together, for people like her little sister, so she can keep being herself while Wynonna feels older and darker every day. Waverly doesn’t require saving, she can damn well rescue herself and look adorable doing it, being whip-smart and self-sacrificing and all the lovely dumb things that make Waverly _Waverly_. But maybe-

“Maybe,” Wynonna says aloud, running her hands through Docs hair, down his jaw, like she is gentling him, probably both of them, “saving somebody doesn’t require them to be weak. You know? Like, maybe it just means you have to care enough.”

“There is certainly strength in that,” Doc agrees.

His mouth is very close to her, the thick hotel bath towel feels thin as a piece of paper between them and there he is always by her side for what seems like its been forever, with his gun hand at the ready and caring about her _cold feet_. He is calling her strong through a fluffy pink towel, whispering it at her hip.

Doc puts both hands on her legs, lightly and just under the towel. It could be sweet and innocent if he wasn’t following the move by leaning forward to push a kiss onto the inside of her thigh, just above her knee He sucks at her skin and it is so sharp Wynonna gasps, her hands leave his head and sort of flutter about by his shoulders. He moves his mouth up her leg, hitching the towel higher when he could just rip it off and starts alternating a sharp, claiming series of bites with gentle, not-quite-there presses of his lips.

Finally landing one hand on his shoulder, she puts the other over where his own hand is gripping the towel with white knuckles, she scratches the back of his hand unthinkingly when his teeth on her thigh leaves her keening out a pained gasp. They have such a hold on each other, hands fisted tight enough to hurt, her nails marking crescents into the back of his stupid, perfect hands. Wynonna feels pathetically pliant, which is nice maybe.

But when Doc starts humming against her skin in a self satisfied way and begins inching his hand up to reach the knot of her towel, shifting to stand, Wynonna brings her knee, her kiss bitten thigh baring, to push him back down.

“Don’t,” Wynonna says steadily.

They regard one another like wolves. And _well hell_ , isn’t her whole life just one pre-duel stand off after another?

“Can I get up?” He tries. And it is unbelievable how in just four words his voice sounds so delightfully wrecked, rough, like the first rumble of thunder across the homestead or the way her bike sounds firing up. He is breathing heavily and his hands skitter across her hips under the towel. Wynonna feels like a mountain before the restless sea.

“I don’t think so,” she pushes harder with her knee against his ribs, leans in sweetly to tuck a stray bit of hair behind his ear, “remember what I said about you calling the shots?”

“I do recall.”

“Awesome,” Wynonna tilts her head, the owl and the prey, “so you _can_ actually follow rules. What a  disappointing shame, the legendary rebel is just all talk.”

Doc is smiling with his eyes, seems genuinely delighted and not even bothered by the insult. The rest of him looks ruined, mouth open, hair out of place and shirt creased where her hands have been. She finds she quite likes ruffling his feathers, knows from the wicked gleam about his eye that the feeling is safely mutual.

“These bones are about a hundred years too old to be kneeling, darlin’. I didn’t think you had it in you to be so cruel.”

Wynonna has it in her to be whatever she pleases, which he knows well enough. What seems to be pleasing her right now is this. Simple as that.

“I also seem to recall you saying I couldn’t decide what you wear,” he punctuates every word with the drag of his hand up her body, he is reaching right up on his knees know, and they are both definitely too old to squabble over a towel but she keeps her grip on the knot all the same, “I guess that prohibits me from ripping this off of your body then?”

Wynonna gulps loudly, _Jerk_.

She manages, through sheer force of will and a fight against gravity, to get his hand away from her and keep the towel from slipping. Doc winds up knelt back down and left no longer touching her in any way. Wynonna’s hand lands on his face in a mocking sort of pat-on-the cheek move. Condescendingly, ever so gently, she runs her thumb over his bottom lip.

“Ha,” Wynonna says, childishly victorious, “this mouth. Thinks it can talk you out of anything doesn’t it? Or rather, talk me out of anything.”

Doc has just enough time to come up with something clever before Wynonna pushes two of her fingers in his mouth.

The first time Wynonna fired Peacekeeper - _fired and struck true that is_ \- she felt like her body had been simultaneously set alight and doused with ice. That push pull sensation between the extremes leaves her jittery, even still, like fighting sleep or dangling on a precipice, she wants so badly to give into it, to the kill and the control. It is undoubtedly dangerous, undeniably attractive.

She felt the same kind of freefalling focus when Doc had passed her that cigarette, a little bit of hot ash landing on her hand and burning the whole way through watching him shoot. She stood in the field but her body felt elsewhere and absent as she stared, torn between watching his hand, the gun, the target or the little smirk under the shadow of his hat. He smirks now, always so cool even as he draws her fingers into his mouth and sucks and god, she might just pass out or something just so she doesn’t have to look anymore.

“How is that authority working out for you up there on that pedestal?” he breathes, nuzzling against her outstretched hand.

Wynonna opens her eyes.

“Just dandy,” she breathes, hopefully sarcastically, and drops the towel.

Doc does a lot of creative cursing which Wynonna doesn’t fully pay attention to because she is busy trying to drag him to her level with nothing but a grip on his hair and sure, ok, maybe this is something they should talk about, but they both moan loudly and that seems to be the most coherency they can manage as a team right now.

Standing a head taller than Wynonna doesn’t mean Doc isn’t still almost cowed and sweetly receptive. She has been held in his arms and tucked under chin, but now she stands bare and jaw set defiantly and this feels just as safe and intimate.

The chair with her coat draped over it bumps the back of Doc’s knees and Wynonna lets him stand for all of one minute in which she chews her lip and contemplates before pushing him back down with a hand on his chest.

This isn’t about aggression, it isn’t violence or even angry passion, Wynonna feels profoundly aware and clear headed, not like their usual gasping collisions. She feels every stitch of embroidery on the ugly shirt as she runs her palm down it, feeling the halting rise of Doc’s chest as he tries to breathe and the shocking coldness of his belt buckle.

Wynonna is business like, shockingly clinical about her movements from here. Doc has his hands gripped on either side of the seat and looks anticipatory, like maybe he is waiting for her to take out his switchblade, cut off his shirt or tie him to the chair. This isn’t anything so ridiculous, so tediously dramatic, this isn’t domination. It’s just about Wynonna getting what she wants for once. The give and take of what Doc is offering and how Wynonna will take it from him.

The lack of preamble might have otherwise stilted their flow, but Wynonna doesn’t pause for long enough and the way she looms over Doc, wet hair in his face and her loud single caught breath in his ear as she lowers herself down might be the single most erotic moment of his whole wild life. He bites his tongue hard just to stop himself from cursing, begging, saying her name; he doesn’t want to interrupt her.

She doesn’t even kiss him, doesn’t touch him at all with any precision, no lips and no fingertips but just the long slide of her body against his clothes. The chair and Doc both take it very well, Wynonna is unrelenting and hypnotic, the chair creaks a little and Doc finally breathes out a garbled moan which might have contained words.

He lifts his hands up and places them almost on the sharp points of Wynonna’s hipbone, just a breath away, he feels like a man about to touch a tiger.

Wynonna has her back arched perfectly, is holding Doc in place with his open belt buckle wrapped around and around one hand which she is using to guide him where she wants. Her head is tipped back and to the side, Doc can’t even see her face really.

She feels the gentle touch at her hips, tips them forward instinctively and automatically into the contact. She is surprised herself by the surprised sound Doc makes, how tentative his grip is on her. She looks down at him as she rocks them both together, together, leans forward onto the back of the chair and curves her spine till her mouth is bumping against his jaw.

“Did you think just because I’m using you that meant I’d forgotten about you?”

She grinds down and hisses and it is _so, so good_ and it is so hot in the room. Doc doesn’t even feel like he could speak even if he had permission.

She mouths and whispers all kinds of things against the side of his face, dark things, dirty things, things she probably won’t mean later and she shouldn’t be bringing up from their earlier fight. She talks and doesn’t stop moving for a second until her lips are stung from his rough stubble and he has both arms firmly around her back, not holding her up but just holding her with his blunt nails in her skin, fingers drumming on her spine and at the nape of her neck.

Wynonna licks into his mouth once, messily and follows it up with her fingers, two crooked up against the roof of his mouth and she has such plans but is absolutely done for when Doc’s hand comes up around hers like he is trying to pull the trigger himself. She laughs brokenly, viciously and whispers - _bang-_ gasps it out against his temple.

They don’t fall off the chair exactly, but they have both had more graceful moments to be sure. In fact, like in most things, the touch down is all sort of a blur. They end up sprawled between the bed and the window and god knows how long they blink up at the ceiling, not even touching but Wynonna feels it again, that push and pull in her core. She is entirely narrowed down to the crosshairs, can’t believe how good this messy but focussed oblivion feels as she teeters on the brink of it. She can see the chair out of the corner of her eye before her eyelids closed, her coat is still miraculously hanging on, carefully draped and drying over the back of the chair.

A rustling to her left has Wynona opening one eye, apparently Doc has mustered the brain capacity to undo his shirt buttons like he is being choked by his clothes, or at least he is trying to; Wynonna has to take a second of pride that his fingers are actually _trembling_ too much to do much more than tuck himself back into his pants before fumbling with his own collar.

She takes pity on him, props up onto her elbow and leans in to works on the buttons herself, methodically undoing each one with a follow up kiss. Still only halfway to undressed but panting through the afterglow, Doc gets an arm around Wynonna’s shoulder and tugs her down onto his chest. She lets herself fall, boneless and overheated by the proximity of the scorching radiator and another person. She feels sweaty and her scalp itches from her un-dried hair, she landed on her elbow hard and she feels raw and bruised. But god, it was good.

His breathing loud in her ear and heartbeat louder under where she is laying on his chest, Doc manages maybe five minutes of stillness before he starts tapping his fingers against Wynonna’s side, he is itching to smoke, she realises, it feels like he is cutting a deck over and over on her ribs.

“Check the sidetable,” She says tiredly, “people usually leave all kinds of good stuff in there.”

Doc reaches up to open the drawer, he flops back down a mere second later with a pained sound that sounds like a death whimper.

“Close but no cigar?” Wynonna says in a stupid voice.

“Not even a bible.”

“My word, I see we had to drive four hours from Purgatory to reach Hell. What a place.”

“I ain’t complaining,” Doc leers, dropping what feels like a kiss on her wet hair.

“Great chairs,” Wynonna enthuses, “Top notch workmanship on that baby right there.”

A yawn catches up with her, making her jaw crack and she nuzzles her face into Doc’s side and tries to ignore how gross she feels and how much nicer this would be actually on the bed rather than next to it. In a stubborn effort to be romantic and go with it, she closes her eyes and drifts until-

“I haven’t kissed you all day, not really,” Doc sighs loudly, “that seems like a crying shame.”

“Don’t tempt me old man, I might enjoy making you cry,” Wynonna pokes him in the side with her bruised elbow, “you don’t have to ask for that dummy.”

Doc tips her smoothly onto her back, she locks her arms around his neck and waits with her eyes slid shut and lips parted. They are pressed together all the way down the ankles; it feels worryingly domestic and gentle after Wynonna just fucked his brains out without even taking his clothes off.

The kiss doesn’t come and Wynonna opens her eyes. Doc is looking down at her with amusement; she shifts, as self-conscious as she is ever gonna get, and narrows her eyes questioningly.

“I like you like this,” He says, “I liked you like that too, you know. I guess we can surmise that I like you in all kinds of ways.”

“Ok sappy, come put your mouth on mine or I will kick you out of here before breakfast.”

They both take a mutual moment of silence at the very idea of food; Wynonna’s stomach joins in too, rumbling noisily.

“Maybe I’ll go hunt something down,” Doc shifts and the places where he moves his body off of Wynonna suddenly feel shivery and cold, “and some cigarettes.”

Wynonna definitely doesn’t pout.

“And here I thought you were supposed to be kissing me?” She says with a hurt, lopsided smile.

“I think you implied that one was my choice.”

“Well I changed my mind and now I am demanding it.”

Doc lowers himself down again till his lips are about half a centimetre from hers.

“You have got an awful lot of rules little lady, this is more complicated than driving a car.”

“Did you just compare me to a vehicle?”

“Oh please,” Doc ghosts a kiss on the bow of her lip, “you love your cursed vehicles more than anything.”

“Oh god I do,” Wynonna thinks about her bike, groans noisily when Doc finally starts kissing her properly, like he wanted to, like she asked him to, “ _almost_ -” he bites her lower lip soft as anything, “- _anything_.”

He pulls away, Wynonna’s neck craning to chase after his brilliant mouth, when suddenly he is on his feet and walking away.

“Seriously?” she yells, “that was as mind-blowingly, brain jarringly fantastic for you as it was for me right? What is this, payback?”

“Don’t be obtuse; you and I both know you are smarter than that, maybe not modest but definitively smart.”

She takes his offered hand up, grumpy and very naked until she takes the offered robe too. Then she is just left with grumpiness. Doc laughs at her face, knocks her lightly under the chin with his knuckles.

“We gotta eat. I need to smoke, kid.” He says.

“And after, kissing?”

Doc beams at her in that sidelong, crooked way.

“After, kissing,” He concedes, “I’ve got some rules of my own too, you know.”

Wynonna laughs, starts hopelessly trying to braid her tangled knot of hair over one shoulder.

“Yeah, you wish.”

Doc puts his hat on precisely and flamboyantly, but apparently doesn’t seem to consider buttoning his shirt at all or the fact that he is embarking on an impossible scavenger hunt gone midnight in an unfamiliar, tiny border town. A town where they believe him to be a wanted, dangerous criminal.

Wynonna shakes her head, _tragic_ , she thinks, _I fucked all the smart out of him, another good one ruined._

Doc’s hat reappears in the doorway.

“Wynonna,” he says firmly.

Wynonna opens her mouth to say something hilariously mean until he points his finger at the sidetable and says the three words that remind her why she keeps his ass around.

“Call your sister.”

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find me here on tumblr](http://margotvergerbloom.tumblr.com)


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